


The Cutting Edge

by deadwritersociety



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Based on the movie The Cutting Edge, Kloppman is Race’s coach, M/M, Spot was a hockey player, This is..... full of jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadwritersociety/pseuds/deadwritersociety
Summary: You could make a hockey player out of a figure skater, but could you make a figure skater out of a hockey player?After their unfortunate events at the Calgary Olympic Games, Spot and Race somehow find themselves on the rink together, despite the fact that Spot is not a figure skater (yet, at least).





	The Cutting Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Listen.... I know I have like, five other works to finish but this needed to be done. Don’t stop bugging me until I finish another chapter of this because it’s based on my favorite movie.

The memory was still fresh in Spot’s mind. He didn’t know what events led up to being slammed that hard against the glass, but he knew it had something to do with being late to his first game at the Olympics. His helmet had come off as soon as he was pushed up against the glass, leaving his head unprotected as he knocked it against the solid ice of the rink.

The one thing that had stood out in his mind was knocking down a figure skater in the halls. He was in a rush, to say the least. He couldn’t find the hallway that led to the ice and god, he was really late this time.

“Is this the way to the ice?” He asked the boy, not even offering to help him up. “Is this the way to the ice?”

The boy scoffed, trying to find his way onto his feet. “You heathen,” he muttered.

Spot could faintly hear the national anthem playing, alerting him that he was definitely late for his game.

“Darling, where I’m from we stand for the national anthem.”

It wasn’t long before he ran down another hall, leaving the figure skater on the ground without so much as an apology.

The doctor had mentioned the words ‘blind side’ and ‘professional hockey isn’t in your future’. It wasn’t something that he had wanted to believe but it was the truth. Twenty-six letters in two years; all rejections from NHL teams. It was becoming a reality.

He still played in bar leagues, even though there was a thought in the back of his mind stating that of course he would never play real hockey again. He had lost enough peripheral vision in his right eye that it would never work out professionally.

His initial thought when Kloppman had asked him for his time was that his brother was playing a joke on him.

“What is this?” A confused expression washed over his face. “Is this some kind of joke? What, my brother gives you a couple free beers and you come over here with this act?”

Kloppman shook his head with a sigh. “I’m not joking around, Spot. I’ve seen your tapes. I can get you back on the ice, I swear.”

He reached down to his duffel bag and unzipped it before pulling out a pair of skates and dangling them in front of Spot.

“Those are figure skates, pal.”

 

* * *

 

 

Calgary was the biggest failure of Race’s career in pairs skating. It had begun with the practices the week of the games. If one was really being honest, it had started with the moment that Race chose Romeo as his partner on the ice. Romeo had let him down time after time, yet they still pursued nationals (and eventually, as aforementioned, the Olympics) He proved to be too tense, unable to handle the pressure of the games.

The fall during their program _had_ been Romeo’s fault, right? He couldn’t hold Race up properly, the moment they begun to lower Race into his sit spin it all went wrong. One mistake (or rather a hundred small ones that led up to this enormously terrible one) had landed Race on his ass, in both a literal and career sense.

It didn’t stop him from skating, no, it only stopped him from competing. Two years was all that it took for him to make his way through a long list of thirty-two phenomenal pairs skaters. It was two years before his coach, Kloppman, had taken… a different approach to finding a skating partner.

An ex-hockey player was his genius solution to the demise of Race’s career. It was laughable to even dream of such an idea. You couldn’t turn a hockey player into a figure skater.

 

* * *

 

  
“You have your own rink?” Spot stood in awe, looking around the inside of the building.

It was empty, just a simple rink and a sitting chair off in the far corner. There was a skater on the ice, presumably Race, who skated so gracefully that it was hard to look away. Spot’s eyes followed his every move, finally averting away when Race made a sharp stop, eying him from afar.

“What is this, Kloppman?” He skated over to the edge of the rink, taking a closer look at Spot. “This… this is not a figure skater. He doesn’t even have the right posture.”

“You’re right, I’m not a figure skater,” Spot shot back. “I’m a hockey player. The only reason I came here is because Kloppman here said he could get me back on the ice.”

“Well,” Race began, a snarky tone rooted in his voice, “this was your audition. You can rest assured that you’ve failed miserably. You aren’t cut out for this line of work.”

Kloppman shook his head, rubbing his temples to alleviate the migraine the arguing gave him.

“Enough,” he finally shouted at the two. “Enough. This is the last shot for the both of you. Race, after him you’ve reached the end of the line. He’s all you’ve got now. Spot, this is your last opportunity to get back onto the ice. You blow this and you’re through. You both are.”

That was all it took to get Spot into figure skates and Race to stand within five foot of him.

“Do you ever shower?” Race asked him once they were pressed against each other in starting position.

“Is that an invitation?” Spot retorted, a sly grin spread across his face.

Race rolled his eyes as they began to skate. “You really are a neanderthal, aren’t you?”

Spot struggled to keep up in pace with Race, falling behind. “I hate to tell you, but I’m from Minnesota, just south of neanderthal.”

When Spot fell, Race couldn’t help but let out a loud laugh that echoed in the close to empty building.

“Don’t quit your day job,” he taunted, skating around Spot, whom struggled to get himself up off of the ice. “You’ll be returning to it soon enough.”

A few hundred falls later and Spot was covered in what would surely be at least fifty bruises within the next hour.

“Like I said, Spot, don’t quit your day job.”

Spot struggled to pull himself up off the ice, but once he did, he skated to the edge and quickly unlaced his skates, throwing them to the side. The fact of the matter was that he already quit his day job.

 


End file.
